


Counting

by ActiveAgression



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, fake ah crew universe, not happy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5653633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActiveAgression/pseuds/ActiveAgression
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[If Ray had more self preservation he would duck, but in this store his life feels kind of worthless anyway and the suicidal thoughts from the last month leave him standing there, staring along the length of weapon and up into the dark sockets of a mask. </p><p>He’s staring death in the face]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting

There are twenty little orange boxes of tic-tacs on the counter before him and seventeen little green ones. The ceiling is made up of sixty-seven grubby off-white tiles and the store door has opened more times then there have been people entering the store.  
Half the time when it opens, Ray gets to watch a smiling family or a half naked couple or a group of surfers stroll past. The door slides open smoothly, welcomingly and when the people fail to enter it closes hesitantly and almost sadly like it’s sole want in life is to have people walk through. 

Ray finds himself feeling pity for the spurned effort of the doorway and not for the first time, realises he’s been here, behind this counter, too long if he feels bad for doors.  
Everytime he realises the doors look a bit pathetic, he distracts himself with counting out stocks of sweets and cigarettes.  
The inconspicuous box of condoms he snuck into his bag at the start of shift are now sitting back on the shelf after midday when he resigned himself to the honest truth that he wouldn’t be needing them.

When the door slides open again, Ray makes an effort to not look. He peers into the aisles in the opposite direction, determined not to feel sorry for the damned things again.  
This time though, he hears heavy footsteps and swivels around to find the barrel of a gun pointed right at his face.  
If Ray had more self preservation he would duck, but in this store his life feels kind of worthless anyway and the suicidal thoughts from the last month leave him standing there, staring along the length of weapon and up into the dark sockets of a mask. 

He’s staring death in the face. 

The mask is black in places and grey in others, carved into a skull with bright blue eyes studying him from within. He probably seems a little odd to this robber, odder still when his lips curl into an involuntary smile. 

“Hey there, what can I get for you?” he asks sunnily like the manager had spent hours teaching him like he didn’t already know how to fake emotion. The gun doesn’t deter him; distracts him from the dark pool his life’s been melting into actually. 

“The money,” a deeper then real voice deadpans from behind skeletal teeth. 

Ray sighs and opens the cash register, a small stupid part of him had been hoping for a little degradation, some rough contact.  
Was wanting to be thrown around bad? Probably.  
Was wanting this unidentifiable tower of a man to push him against the sharp edges of the counter and fuck him bad? Definitely; but Ray never claimed to be normal, never claimed to be okay and he knows what he needs, knows what he can take.  
He wasn’t a mercenary for five years for nothing after all. 

When the money and the guy leaves, Ray stares after him - contemplating going with him, going back to the life he left and shakes out of it, visions of blood and blank honey eyes haunting him. 

He distracts himself by counting messy thumbprints on the glossy surface of his counter and manages, only barely, not to cry. 

A day, a firm talking to from the manager and fifty-six pink packets of gum later and Ray fiddles listlessly with his shirt sleeve while the door opens pathetically and no one enters. 

He’d cleaned his guns last night, thoroughly and pointlessly; his hands shaking around the lethal weapons the entire time. It’d been the worst with his lady; his gorgeous modified pink sniper rifle that had started his whole career and ended it abruptly with a gasp over his earpiece and the slump of a body in the street.  
“It was an accident; a mistake,” Geoff assured him later in the Fake AH crew penthouse and Ray only just heard him over the ringing in his ears and the choked sobs emanating from Gavin.  
It probably surprised no one when he wasn’t there in the morning. 

There are twelve cans of coca cola visible from his angle, twenty-nine boxes of tissues and nine dead flies on the windowsill.  
Ray had always been good with numbers, with maths and angles and [six ceiling lights] but Gavin was always better, tapping away at his keyboard while [forty-three bottles of hand sanitizer.]  
Ray actually steps out from behind the counter to make sure he was right and then checks another two times just to be sure. He then retreats to his cash register and starts to count out the defeated packets of air that occasionally contain potato chips. 

The door opens and warm air rushes into the too cool air inside the store. Ray still tells the manager that the air conditioner drops temperature by itself and somehow the gullible bastard believes him but really the old machine works fine and it’s Ray that doesn’t; it’s Ray that feels better when his skin is prickling with discomfort.  
There are fifty-two loaves of whole wheat bread stacked high on to shelves and Ray can’t remember the last time he had any in his pantry. 

There’s a guy in a skull mask standing before the counter. Ray knows it’s the same guy even without the gun aimed at his face. 

He smiles with fake warmth and pretends to go for the panic button under the counter like his boss had instructed so it’ll at least look like he tried on the recording later. 

“Hi again! Anything I can get for you?” he asks cheerfully, “keeping in mind that our stock on money is low at the moment so maybe the one on East Joshua road would better suit you.” 

The mask was silent for a moment too long.  
“Trying to get rid of me?” he finally asks, voice revealing nothing; expression, hidden as it is, revealing even less. 

“I would never do that to a valued customer,” Ray answers and gets a slight nod before the mask turns to explore the aisles. He keeps in sight and normally Ray wouldn’t care; would go back to counting but this time he follows the deliberate movements until the man returns to the counter with duct tape and a magazine on fishing. 

“Great choice sir,” Ray comments, scanning the items through, “Cod Weekly is one of my personal favourites.” 

“Really?” the mask huffs which Ray takes to be the closest he’s got to a laugh. 

“I’m sure it would be if I ever read it,” Ray lies; he has read it and every other thing to read in here. He’s studied every word, critiqued articles and proven wrong half of them with a minute of internet research on his phone.  
For the sake of expectation, he lies.

“Six twenty,” he announces and bags the items, passing them over.  
He watches the mask leave with them and without paying.  
Ray hadn’t expected him to anyway. 

The rest of his shift consists of thirty-seven customers and recounting all the things he’s already counted just in case they’ve changed. Few have. 

The next two days are a disgustingly drug fueled time of gunless games and hunger pains.  
He has four cultural victories in Civilisation V and a thriving City Skylines game by the end.  
He also spends a full hour looking up bridges in his area should the urge to throw himself off one come up. 

Monday comes up instead and Ray’s back behind his counter, counting.  
There are thirty-two bottles of rat poison on a nearby shelf, three hundred and six little headache pills laid out at home and a list with forty options shakily scrawled on it in his pocket. The words burn into him, even the ones that have been scratched off. He knows he should just pick one and be done with it but can’t quite manage to. 

When the mask comes in, Ray isn’t surprised. 

Ray isn’t surprised the next twelve times the guy shows up but apparently the guy is. 

“Why aren’t you scared?” he finally snaps and Ray shrugs halfheartedly. 

“Should I be?”

The only seems to enrage the mask as his voice has lost its depth and obvious fakeness in the wake of real anger.  
“The first time you saw me, I held a gun to your face,” he snarls. 

“Yes you did,” Ray agrees mildly, “perhaps you should try it again.” It was meant to be a snarky sort of comment, passive aggressively informing the guy that Ray wasn’t at all scared but instead it comes out like a real suggestion and Ray wonders at the want in his voice. 

The gun is brought out lightning quick, pressed to his forehead and he leans into it. He savours the feeling and finally his list is worthless. He’s found a new option.  
His hands flash up and rip the mask from the guys face, breathing in the lines and the stubble and the gaping mouth. The guy is possibly the most beautiful person Ray’s ever seen. 

“Wait…” he mumbles, pulling the gun the the side and shock seems to be the only thing that allows him to do so. 

Ray climbs up onto the counter, the hard surface pressing into his knees and driving in a deep ache but it doesn’t need to. The ache was already there - has been ever since Michael crumpled in a pool of blood and the guard’s uniform he’d stolen in order to escape. 

Ray tangles his fingers in the soft blonde hair revealed from under the mask and pulls the robber into a harsh searing kiss. Their mouths press together tight and firm and when Ray opens his mouth into it, there’s no hesitation from the other; just the soft slide of tongue against his and then their limbs are tangling together and there’s no counter pressing into his knees because his legs - his entire body - is wrapped around the other and he’s not even touching the ground, just clinging on and he can feel the cool metal of the gun still clenched in the guy’s hand but that’s what Ray needs anyway so he doesn’t mind. 

The edge of the counter digs into Ray’s back and he pulls back to swear but doesn’t end up getting the curse out because the other’s free hand is sliding up under his shirt, feeling along his ribs and over his quivering stomach. Fingers brush his nipple just and he gasps, jumps and melts into another kiss, hot and churning his stomach into knots. 

The mask pulls away suddenly and entirely and Ray leans back against the counter to breathe momentarily. 

“Wha-” he begins, mussed and furrowed and unmasked but Ray just brings the hand with the gun back up to his face and smiles into blue eyes. 

“Do it,” he mutters.

“Why?” the mask murmurs and Ray glares. 

“I’ve seen your face, you have to so do it. Kill me.” he begs and horrifically, the guy lowers his gun, shakes his head and backs away. 

“I won't do it,” he says, pulling his discarded mask back on and then he’s gone and Ray’s left staring at thirty-two bottles of rat poison. 

Back at his apartment, Ray’s writing a comparative chart on the merits of shooting himself in the head vs the heart. It’s thirteen vs sixteen when he thinks, “fuck it,” and with a bang he barely hears, he’s gone and never has to count again.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what inspired this exactly, it's probably just my life at the moment really... not to worry. I'm having fun really. Also Ray and Ryan is my OTP of OTPs... so yeah.. inspiration and all and i have like four more stories about them to finish. The other ones are much happier, trust me
> 
> Blah blah.. suicide is never the answer and i'm not encouraging anyone and the best piece of advice i've ever gotten about it is, "how could you even think that? That is so stupid! You are being so stupid!" which is terrible but i'm well adjusted or something so i can tell you this; if ever you think you can't deal with life anymore, don't be Ray. Don't give up, wait it out and even if it doesn't seem like it, everything will get better. 
> 
> This got more sad and morbid then i thought it would but really, you'll find things to live for. And i'll shut up now. 
> 
> Hope you liked reading!


End file.
